Page 41 of A Scoundrel in the Making

Chapter Eleven

Reade leaned back in his chair as Douglas Russell stood. They’d played for two hours. In the end, Russell had won five pounds from him. He hated losing the money, but it kept Russell at the table for a length of time that should have allowed Abigail enough opportunity to search the rooms in Russell's private wing. She had yet to return.

Russell's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “You played well, Lord Reade.”

Reade angled his head. “As did you.”

“It was sheer poetry to watch,” Lord Bingley said.

“I was out after the first hand,” Mr. Westland said.

“I heard he couldn't be beat,” someone said behind Reade.

Reade lifted his brows. “No one is unbeatable, gentlemen. Not even me.”

Russell puffed out his chest. “I got lucky,” he said.

“Hardly,” Reade said. “You played well.”

“If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I should get back to my party,” Russell said. “By now, my wife is sure to know I spent two hours in the card room.”

Laughter rippled through the ranks.

“Give her the five hundred pounds you won,” someone said. “She will forgive you.”

More laughter.

Russell left and Reade rose. “Good evening, gentlemen.” He pushed back his chair.

“You don't want to win your money back, Reade?” Lord John said.

Reade gave him a cool smile. “If you are free later, perhaps.”

John’s eyes narrowed on Reade as he passed him.

Reade strode from the room and entered the ballroom. The ballroom wasn’t as large as some, but the crowd had grown since he'd sequestered himself in the card room. When he couldn’t locate Abigail after a ten-minute search, he also realized that Mr. Russell had disappeared from the ballroom. Good God, surely the man hadn’t made another assignation in his chambers?

Reade returned to the hallway where the card rooms were located and continued past them to the nearest staircase.

When he reached the third floor, he called in a low voice, “Abigail.”

No answer. Reade crept to Russell's room, the first door on the right, pressed his ear against the door, and strained for any sound. The door abruptly opened and he jumped back. Reade sucked in a breath at the sight of Abigail holding the crown and scepter in one hand and the Sword of State in the other.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

Reade jarred from the trance. “My God,” he whispered.

She stepped from the room and whispered, “Close the door.”

He did as she asked, then faced her, eyes fixed on the sword.

“Reade.” She shoved the sword toward him and he grasped it by the scabbard.

He couldn’t believe it. He held the Scottish Sword of State.

“For God’s sake,” she hissed, and he looked up.

Abigail handed him the scepter and crown, then pulled a small leather pouch from a pocket within the folds of her gown and withdrew two—